Once, I tried to hang my sadness

on a nail in the kitchen.

But it kept crawling back,

wearing my perfume,

asking for breakfast.

It sat in my chair,

spooned honey into its mouth

like memory,

then bled it out

onto the floral tablecloth.

The bees came.

They thought it was spring.

They swarmed my teacup,

drowned in the porcelain hush.

The sadness laughed,

lipsticked in my shade.

It fried the eggs.

It salted them with my name.

It told me,

This is how mourning sweetens itself

so no one leaves the table.

I said nothing.

The fork trembled.

The eggs went cold.

I watched it pour milk

into the ghost of your coffee cup.

Watched the steam rise

like something escaping

without apology.

Sadness whispered :

"He never left.

He just changed rooms.

Now he lives

between your shoulder blades."

I laughed.

I couldn’t stop.

It sounded like 

glass being taught

to pray.

I pressed my palm

to the stove 

until something hissed.

Not to hurt—

just to prove

I still had a name.

Sadness licked the butter knife.

Called it mercy.

Called it morning.

And I let it.

and I wept.

They will call it hysteria.

They always do.

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